him—’
‘Not necessarily another woman,’ Will muttered. ‘“The
other great passion” was the phrase. Could have been anything.’
‘OK. My point is, I can see why a rejected wife and her very loving
mother would need to invent a larger explanation for the departure of a
husband. Otherwise it’s a rejection, isn’t it?’
She had not been his wife then, just the girlfriend he had met in his
closing weeks at Columbia. He was in journalism school; she was doing a medical
internship at the New York Presbyterian Hospital; they had met at a Memorial
Day weekend softball game in the park. (He had left the message on her
answering machine that same evening.) Those first few months were bathed in his
mind in a permanent golden glow. He knew the memory could play tricks like that,
but he was convinced the glow was a genuine, externally verifiable phenomenon.
They had met in May, when New York was in the midst of a glorious spring. The
days seemed to be lit by amber; each walk they took sparkled in the sun. It was
not just their lovestruck imaginations; they had photographs to prove it.
Will realized he was smiling. This daydream was the first time he had
thought of Beth, rather than Beth gone. Which was what he remembered now, with
the jolt of a man who wakes up to realize that, yes, his leg has been amputated
and, no, it was not all a horrible dream.
His father had come back into the room and was saying something about
contacting the internet company, but Will was not listening. He had had enough.
His father was not thinking straight: the moment they made any move like that, they
risked alerting the police. The internet service provider would surely take a
look at the kidnappers’ emails and feel obliged to notify the authorities.
‘Dad, I need some time to rest,’ he said, gently shepherding his
father to the door. ‘I need some time alone.’
‘Will, that’s all very well, but I’m not sure rest is a
luxury you can afford. You need to use every minute—’
Monroe Sr stopped. He could see his son was in no mood to negotiate; there
was a steel in Will’s eyes that was ordering his father to leave, no
matter how polite the words coming out of his mouth.
When the door was closed, Will sighed deeply, slumped into a chair and
stared at his feet. He allowed himself no more than thirty seconds like that,
before he breathed deeply, pulled his back up straight and girded himself for
his next move. Despite what he had just said, he was neither going to rest nor
be alone. He knew exactly what he had to do.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, 3.16pm, Brooklyn
T om Fontaine had been Will’s
first friend in America, or rather the first friend he had made since coming to
the country as an adult. They had met in the registration office at Columbia:
Tom was just ahead of Will in the queue.
Will’s initial feeling towards Tom was frustration. The line was
moving slowly enough already, but he could see the lanky guy in the old-man’s
overcoat was going to take forever.
Everyone else had their forms ready, most of them neatly printed out. But
the overcoat was still filling his in as he stood. With a fountain pen that had
sprung a leak. Will turned to the girl behind him, raising his eyebrows as if
to say, ‘Can you believe this guy?’ Eventually the two of them started
talking out loud about how irritating it was to be stuck behind such a sap:
they were emboldened by the permanent presence in the sap’s ears of a
pair of white headphones.
Finally, he had rummaged in his schoolboy satchel enough times to find a
dog-eared driver’s licence that had lost its laminate and a letter from
the university. These somehow convinced the official that he was indeed called
Tom Fontaine and that he was entitled to be a student at Columbia. In philosophy.
As he turned around, he gave Will a smile: ‘Sorry, I know how
irritating it is to be stuck behind the college sap.’ Will blushed. He
had obviously heard every word. (Will would
‘Not necessarily another woman,’ Will muttered. ‘“The
other great passion” was the phrase. Could have been anything.’
‘OK. My point is, I can see why a rejected wife and her very loving
mother would need to invent a larger explanation for the departure of a
husband. Otherwise it’s a rejection, isn’t it?’
She had not been his wife then, just the girlfriend he had met in his
closing weeks at Columbia. He was in journalism school; she was doing a medical
internship at the New York Presbyterian Hospital; they had met at a Memorial
Day weekend softball game in the park. (He had left the message on her
answering machine that same evening.) Those first few months were bathed in his
mind in a permanent golden glow. He knew the memory could play tricks like that,
but he was convinced the glow was a genuine, externally verifiable phenomenon.
They had met in May, when New York was in the midst of a glorious spring. The
days seemed to be lit by amber; each walk they took sparkled in the sun. It was
not just their lovestruck imaginations; they had photographs to prove it.
Will realized he was smiling. This daydream was the first time he had
thought of Beth, rather than Beth gone. Which was what he remembered now, with
the jolt of a man who wakes up to realize that, yes, his leg has been amputated
and, no, it was not all a horrible dream.
His father had come back into the room and was saying something about
contacting the internet company, but Will was not listening. He had had enough.
His father was not thinking straight: the moment they made any move like that, they
risked alerting the police. The internet service provider would surely take a
look at the kidnappers’ emails and feel obliged to notify the authorities.
‘Dad, I need some time to rest,’ he said, gently shepherding his
father to the door. ‘I need some time alone.’
‘Will, that’s all very well, but I’m not sure rest is a
luxury you can afford. You need to use every minute—’
Monroe Sr stopped. He could see his son was in no mood to negotiate; there
was a steel in Will’s eyes that was ordering his father to leave, no
matter how polite the words coming out of his mouth.
When the door was closed, Will sighed deeply, slumped into a chair and
stared at his feet. He allowed himself no more than thirty seconds like that,
before he breathed deeply, pulled his back up straight and girded himself for
his next move. Despite what he had just said, he was neither going to rest nor
be alone. He knew exactly what he had to do.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, 3.16pm, Brooklyn
T om Fontaine had been Will’s
first friend in America, or rather the first friend he had made since coming to
the country as an adult. They had met in the registration office at Columbia:
Tom was just ahead of Will in the queue.
Will’s initial feeling towards Tom was frustration. The line was
moving slowly enough already, but he could see the lanky guy in the old-man’s
overcoat was going to take forever.
Everyone else had their forms ready, most of them neatly printed out. But
the overcoat was still filling his in as he stood. With a fountain pen that had
sprung a leak. Will turned to the girl behind him, raising his eyebrows as if
to say, ‘Can you believe this guy?’ Eventually the two of them started
talking out loud about how irritating it was to be stuck behind such a sap:
they were emboldened by the permanent presence in the sap’s ears of a
pair of white headphones.
Finally, he had rummaged in his schoolboy satchel enough times to find a
dog-eared driver’s licence that had lost its laminate and a letter from
the university. These somehow convinced the official that he was indeed called
Tom Fontaine and that he was entitled to be a student at Columbia. In philosophy.
As he turned around, he gave Will a smile: ‘Sorry, I know how
irritating it is to be stuck behind the college sap.’ Will blushed. He
had obviously heard every word. (Will would
Similar Books
